


over the hills and far away

by heyitsk



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, a spot of angst, bro!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsk/pseuds/heyitsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>juan mata transfers to chelsea. esteban granero sits on the bench.</p>
            </blockquote>





	over the hills and far away

**Author's Note:**

> originally published [here](http://kfunk22.livejournal.com/7639.html), January 8, 2012.

The phone on Juan’s nightstand trills a familiar ring tone. He groans, burrows his head deeper into his pillow and pulls the covers tighter around him. The phone finally peters out but not before the noise has managed to rouse him thoroughly from the deepest sleep he’s managed in months; it’s amazing how much of an effect signing a few pieces of paper can have.

Two minutes later, there’s a light knock on his bedroom door. Paula doesn’t wait for Juan’s response before she’s inside his room, her slippers scuffing against the hardwood floor as she approaches his bed. She reaches down to tousle his hair gently while issuing a firm but quiet command. “It’s time, Juan. You need to get ready.”

When he finally rolls over to look up at his sister, she drops the receiver of their land line onto his lap. Before he can think to ask who it is, she’s out the door and halfway down the stairs. He hears her mention something about oatmeal for breakfast. Juan groans in dismay before lifting to the phone to his ear.

He gets out a groggy “Hello” before he’s interrupted.

“It’s been less than 24 hours and you’re already too famous to take my calls?” Juan can hear car horns blaring, a rush of wind through an open window and the soft crackle of talk radio in the background.

Jesus, Juan wonders, just how long has Esteban been awake already?

“The whole point of moving to England was to get away from you, you bastard,” Juan drawls lazily, arching into a stretch as the day unfurls ahead of him. 

“I’d believe that a bit more if you hadn’t just spent the entire summer break camped out in my guest room, moping about your future and marathoning Jersey Shore repeatedly.”

Juan’s known Esteban since he arrived at Real Madrid six years ago, baby-faced and shy but eager to take on the world. Esteban had partnered with him during his first training session; that same afternoon, Juan found himself in Esteban’s living room watching Madrid’s first team play a pre-season exhibition match in Hong Kong. They make for a strange pair, but Juan finds comfort in the vastness of their differences.

Regardless, it’s far too early for this, Juan thinks.

“You’re the worst, Esteban. The absolute worst.”

“Considering what I know about your taste, I’ll take that as a compliment. But listen, I just wanted to catch you before training and wish you luck. Not that you’ll need it. You’re going to have an amazing season, I’m sure of it.”

Juan swallows nervously. He eyes the alarm clock on his bedside table, only to be jolted into action upon discovering that it’s 6:45 a.m.

“Fuck, it’s late! I should have been out of bed fifteen minutes ago!”

There’s a panicked flurry of frantic scrambling as Juan runs about his bedroom trying to assemble his kit. Belatedly, Juan remembers that Paula made him pack it last night and it’s currently awaiting him downstairs. On the other line, there’s a steady stream of knowing laughter.

Esteban’s about to hang up when Juan interrupts him.

“Hey. Pirata. Thanks. For calling, and all that. It means a lot.” Juan cringes, wonders just how awkward and adolescent he sounds.

“Don’t be daft, you moron,” Esteban chides. But Juan can hear a gentle chuckle as he rings off. 

+

Fernando is waiting for him in the parking lot when he arrives for training at the grounds in Cobham.

"Sleep well? Long day ahead, no?”

Juan feels his stomach lurch in anxiety. Fernando must notice because he rests a strong hand on Juan's shoulder and guides him inside.

“Don’t worry, Juan. No matter how horrible today goes, it can’t be worse than the six months I’ve had here,” Fernando smiles self-deprecatingly in reassurance.

Before Juan can steady himself, Fernando’s ushering him into the locker room.

There, he’s met with a cacophony of euphoric greetings, firm slaps on the back and warm smiles. Juan’s English is quite decent, or so he’s been told, but the rush of noise and nerves drown out his grasp on the language. He’s sure his eyes are wide with confusion, making him look even younger than he does already. After a few minutes, Fernando extracts him from the crowd to show him to his locker.

It’s the 10 spot, nestled between Fernando and Drogba. It hits Juan then, as if he’s been sucker punched and had the wind taken right out of him. The magnitude of the change he’s made, the friends and family and team he’s left behind. Juan starts to wonder how he ended up here in London, signed to Chelsea, on the world stage in a way like never before. His knees nearly give out, but he sinks onto the bench in time to avoid embarrassing himself.

Don’t fuck this up, the voice in Juan’s head repeats over and over.

He’s in the middle of suiting up when his phone pings with a text message.

_You won’t fuck it up, dumbass. Now get moving._

Fucking Esteban, Juan thinks. But he’s smiling by the time he’s laced up his boots and heads out onto the pitch.

+

Everyone’s so welcoming that it’s hard to feel too homesick.

Frank and John take Juan and the other new signings out for a welcome to Chelsea lunch; they ply the new recruits with advice and offer their cell phone numbers, poke fun at Juan's accent and ruffle his hair. David Luiz invites him over to play FIFA 2012; Juan leaves with a headache and a bruised rib from the elbow Luiz throws during one of his frenzied goal celebrations.

Silva visits that first weekend after City’s match with Tottenham. They giggle for hours together like schoolboys, both drunk on winning and high hopes for the season ahead. David’s mother sends along a box of homemade _magdalenas_ ; despite knowing better, they polish them off. They fall asleep on the living room couch, slumped comfortably against each other with video game controllers still clasped in their hands.

When Juan wakes up the next morning, it almost feels like home.

But Silva has to go back to Manchester. And no matter how many days pass, Juan is disappointed anew each time he looks out his bedroom window and can’t see the Mediterranean in the distance. In its place, there’s a strange new skyline, stern and spiky and three hundred shades of grey.

+

He’s barely unpacked when international duty calls him back to Madrid. Juan catches a ride from Fernando to the airport. Olalla and Fernando spend the ride chatting gaily away in the front while Juan’s trapped in the back, sandwiched between Leo and Nora’s car seats. They’re each eating an organic fruit roll-up; by the time they arrive at Heathrow, the entire left side of Juan’s face is sticky with dehydrated apricot. Juan makes a note to avoid carpooling with Fernando again anytime soon.

+

La Roja manage to scrape a win together over Chile, somehow, and everyone breathes easier on the short flight back from Switzerland. No one mentions the ugly skirmish at the end—except for del Bosque, whose fury over their behavior is palpable.

Esteban meets Juan at Barajas, wraps him in a warm embrace and hurries him out of the airport as quickly as possible. They manage to escape most of the press, whose attention is engaged by Casillas, Ramos, and Fabregas.

He lets out a sigh of relief as soon as they’ve left the airport. Esteban looks him over appraisingly before observing, “It’s going to be like that for you one day too.”

Juan knows it’s true; he’s just not ready for it to start yet. And besides, Juan says, “You talk as if you’re going to be immune to that kind of attention.” 

Esteban’s eyes shift away from the highway, turn on him with a piercing look.

“What—” Juan starts, but Esteban cuts him off before he can continue. Juan wants to push it further, wants to pry. But he’s been friends with Esteban long enough to know that he won’t get very far.

Instead, Esteban tosses Juan his iPod and instructs him to queue up a playlist; it’s all new indie bands that Juan’s never even heard of, let alone heard. Juan likes his music simple, easily accessible; Top 40 is fine for him. But Juan doesn’t mind. It’s either this or the endless drone of Radio Espana reminding him of all the things wrong with the Spanish economy and the horrors of wars and revolutions being waged far away. 

When they pass the turnoff to Esteban’s apartment in the city center, Juan turns to Esteban, suspicious. “Where are you taking me?”

“There’s a Caravaggio on loan at the Prado. I thought we’d see it before we meet the Castilla boys for dinner. I’m sure it won’t hold a candle to reality television but humor me.”

Esteban’s wearing a devious smile, and Juan knows he hasn’t got a prayer of escaping. He slumps down in his seat, resigned to his fate.

“You’re the fucking worst, Esteban.”

+

Dinner is a rowdy affair. They’re all on dietary restrictions, obviously, so there’s not much to be said about the food itself. But the company, Juan thinks, is better than any cream sauce or chocolate dessert he could imagine.

Alvaro rolls up late, with Raul in tow. It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as they argue over strategy for some ongoing Parchis tournament they’re embroiled in with Ramos. Esteban leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “It’s usually worse. I’m sure you know that by now.”

Callejon is there too, and it’s been ages since Juan’s seen him last. He’s as brassy as ever, and his hair seems to have developed its own life force. Between Alvaro and Jose—as Kermit and Beaker—Madrid’s first team was doing a decent job of fielding a squad of Muppet impersonators, Juan thinks.

(When he mentions this to Esteban on the car ride home, Esteban has to pull the car over because he’s laughing too hard to continue driving. They sit there for ten minutes, attempting to assign everyone their Muppet counterparts. Albiol is Fozzie Bear, of course.)

Esteban’s unusually quiet as everyone chatters over one another about the season ahead. Juan watches Alvaro lean across the table, rest a hand on Esteban’s forearm and ask if he’s okay. Esteban shrugs it off and pastes on a wide, and Juan surmises, fake smile. Juan can tell—it doesn’t reach Esteban’s eyes.

Juan spends the night at Esteban’s flat, where Esteban subjects him to some BBC reboot of Sherlock Holmes. It’s a much needed break from the recent upheaval in his life, to sit comfortably with Esteban in a place he knows as well as his own. He falls asleep on the couch twenty minutes in. Esteban leaves him there.

In the morning when Juan’s complaining about the crick in his neck, Esteban laughs at him with feigned indifference.

“Serves you right for not being able to watch anything that doesn’t involve an obscene amount of vomiting and spray tan.”

+

Still, Juan knows there’s something a bit off about Esteban. But he doesn’t have much time to ponder it before he’s engrossed in training and Euro qualifiers. Juan starts against Liechtenstein; La Roja trounce their opponents easily, six-nil.

He’s back in London before he gets a chance to speak with Esteban again. By then, the distance has worked its magic and everything seems normal.

+

Stamford Bridge won’t ever feel like home the way the Mestalla did (still does), but Juan’s surprised to find that he feels comfortable there so quickly. The football’s different, sure, stronger and more physical and box-to-box in way that it isn’t back in Spain.

There’s also the breezy camaraderie he finds among his teammates, the loud and easy laughter that fills the locker room, and the eclectic mix of nationalities and languages (almost a reflection of London itself, Juan thinks). They all combine to make the experience quite different from Valencia, and Juan doesn’t hesitate in claiming Chelsea as his own. 

But the expectations are heady and make Juan feel drunk with possibility in a way that he’d never felt in Valencia. It’s mid-September, and there’s the very real chance Chelsea can top the table this year. It strikes Juan then that he’s no longer playing in a two team league, racing for third place. Even Chelsea’s European aspirations seem to hold more weight, as if they were more entitled than Valencia had ever been.

It’s a shame then, Juan thinks, that what’s best for him as a footballer should make him feel so guilty. 

+

Didi and Salomon take him out dancing at a Senegalese disco and try to set him up with a fellow Ivorian; she’s statuesque with flawless ebony skin, but her English is terrible and Juan’s French non-existent. Danny takes him for a drive around London after practice one Tuesday, pointing out high-end restaurants and clubs, the shops that best cater to their newfound celebrity and paychecks. 

He prefers the quiet of Fernando’s house, where Olalla cooks him all his favorite Spanish foods and Leo and Nora pelt his shins with Legos as they crawl about underneath the dining room table.

He visits the London Eye, Piccadilly Circus, the Tower of London. He has Paula take pictures of him with his smartphone, and he uploads them to his Twitter. Ten minutes later, his phone lights up with a new message.

_Let me guess. You’re on your way to Buckingham Palace next._

He laughs. Of course, Esteban would chide him for visiting the most obvious, touristy places.

_You’re right. Better wait until you visit._

He misses the Miro exhibit at the Tate, but manages to catch a strange collection of eerie, apocalyptic paintings by a British artist he’s never heard of before. He doesn’t understand much of it, honestly. But he buys a postcard to send to Esteban anyway. 

+

It’s awful going back to the Mestalla to play their Champion’s League match. It’s the crowd that does it, Juan thinks. He’s squared off against his former teammates in competition before, that’s nothing new. But the fans, they love him too much. More than he deserves, Juan’s sure.

It wrecks him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Juan knows it’s because the scars are still raw, barely more than a month old. But being able to rationalize it, Juan realizes, doesn’t make him any more prepared to deal with it.

Juan doesn’t know what’s worse—the tears he wants to cry before heading out onto the pitch at the beginning of the match, or the ones he lets fall after it’s all over. It ends in an one-one draw, split down the middle. If he were Esteban, he’d make some remark about the poetry of it all before casting it off with a Zen-type stoicism. But he’s Juan, so he hides in a toilet stall and cries for two minutes before pulling himself together.

When they’ve boarded the bus to head back to the airport, Juan’s phone sounds off a text alert.

_You okay?_

Juan taps out a quick response.

_I’ve been better. But I’ve been worse too. So there’s that._

He doesn’t think to ask Esteban the same.

Instead, he stares silently out the window as the bus rolls on under the night-cloaked sky of all that was once his. And then he leaves it all over again. 

+

In October, there’s Prague and back at home in Spain, a match against Scotland.

He manages a brief coffee with Esteban. They go to a new café that’s opened in Esteban’s neighborhood where he seems to know all the employees and patrons. Everything’s fine until Juan tries to press him to talk about what’s going on at Madrid this season. Esteban grimaces, tries to ignore Juan’s question.

But Juan can be persistent. “Are we just not going to talk about this then?”

He’s startled when Esteban scowls at him, all tight-lipped composure and a cold look that tells him to leave well enough alone. “There’s not much to say, is there?”

Juan’s not sure how to respond to that.

So when Esteban leans forward to slap him playfully on the shoulder a moment later and ask him what else he’s been keeping busy with in London, Juan’s a bit relieved to tell him about the time he mistakenly stumbled into a crowd of Occupy protestors. He’d managed to march along with them for a half-hour without a single person recognizing him. 

Not long after, it’s time for Juan to head to the airport. He’s still feeling uneasy about his visit with Esteban when he touches down back in London.

+

The season rolls onward.

Chelsea racks up another four wins, a draw and two hard losses. Away at QPR, down to 10 men, sure, it’s understandable. But Juan doesn’t want to talk about what happened at home to Arsenal; it makes him shudder to remember how they fell apart completely at the end.

Sometimes Juan thinks he feels everything too much, too viscerally. He’s hungry, so determined to prove himself, to perfect every pass, shot, challenge. He knows it’s unhealthy to fixate so doggedly on everything, to want so greedily.

But at night, when he’s alone in the flat he shares with his sister, there’s nothing else to fill the space. 

If things were different, he’d call Esteban. But Juan remembers the uncompromising look on his friend’s face, so he plugs his phone in to charge instead.

+

Then there’s Wembley, and the friendly in Costa Rica. There’s not much to be said about the call-up, except that England deserved the win and the long flight back from San Jose did a number on his calf muscles.

He’s grouchy and fatigued, and doesn’t take kindly to Raul when he slips into the seat beside him on the plane home to ask "Do you have any idea what the hell is going on with Pirata?"

Juan admits he’s not at his best when he tells Albiol to fuck off and let him sleep. “You sit next to him on the bench often enough, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Raul, ever unflinching and patient, only smiles kindly at Juan before telling him to get some rest and returning to his own seat.

Juan still feels like shit when he gets back to England, no matter how many times he's apologized.

+

Paula asks him to get passes to the O2 to see Nadal compete in the ATP Tour finals, so Juan rings his agent. It’s the least he can do, Juan thinks, compared to all that she’s had to put up with since he arrived on her doorstep three months ago. He’s taken over her flat, for starters, and she’s done more than her share of chauffeuring him around town.

Tsonga dismantles Nadal in three sets. After it’s over, Juan and Paula are ushered into the VIP lounge. It’s a veritable who’s who of superstar athletes and celebrities, and Juan feels like the new boy in school. They make small talk with Cristiano Ronaldo, who congratulates him on his season with Chelsea and leaves Juan awestruck in his wake, and join Reina and his wife for dinner at a nearby tapas joint that Paula knows.

It’s all a bit too surreal for him, honestly, so Juan turns in early that night. He’s nearly gone when his phone chirps with a message alert.

_Saw you and Princess P on Marca tonight. Tell her she’s way too beautiful to be seen in public with the likes of you._

Juan falls asleep with a smile on his face.

+

At home against the Wolves, Juan curls a beauty of a corner straight in to his captain, who nudges it into the back of the net with his head. He slips past Zubar and sets up Danny for goal with a deft flick in the 29th minute. Then he volleys a pass from Cole past Hennessy for his fourth goal of the season right before the half-time whistle blows. 

He’s named Man of the Match.

It’s a short lived glow, as seems to be custom for Chelsea at this point. They lose at home to Liverpool just three days later.

The text from Esteban reads:

_She’s a cruel mistress, football._

That she is, Juan thinks. He wants to ring Esteban and bitch about all of it—the pressure, the team’s inconsistency, the constant media presence. But things have changed between the two of them since Juan transferred to London, and Juan has no idea why. Whatever’s holding Esteban back or has him avoiding Juan's calls, well. Juan doesn’t want to ignore it anymore.

The phone rings four times before he hears the familiar tone signaling Esteban’s voicemail.

“Answer the phone, you fucker!” Juan yells, before throwing his phone in frustration. It hits the wall with a thud and cracks angrily into several pieces.

He spends the rest of the evening sulking in front of the television, watching back-to-back episodes of Desperate Housewives dubbed in Spanish. When Paula returns and catches sight of the mess he’s made of the living room, she frowns severely at him but doesn’t say a word.

+

Juan’s exhausted, struggling to hold together whatever semblance of routine he’s managed to fashion for himself as mid-season fatigue starts to set in. They’ve been running an entirely new set of plays in preparation for the weekend’s match against Newcastle, and Juan’s focused on trying to memorize everything before it slips away from him.

He’s a bit distracted when Fernando pulls him aside after practice to tell Juan that he’d had a rather unusual conversation with Xabi the previous evening. 

“Apparently, Granero’s been acting strange lately—showing up late to practice, acting more aloof than usual, snapping at people in the dressing room. Any idea what’s going on with him?”

It hits Juan like a blow to the gut, because, fuck, he has no idea what’s going on with Esteban. It’s slowly beginning to drive him insane, even starting to affect his football.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, though. So Juan shrugs, smiles as guilelessly as he can manage, and hurriedly changes the topic of conversation to Nora and Leo.

Fernando fixes him with a knowing look and sighs in resignation. Juan is grateful that Fernando’s kind enough to take the hint and let it slide.

+

Valencia, again. At home this time.

Juan has troubling focusing; neither the emotional showdown with his former teammates nor the fact that the team’s European aspirations hinge on this match do much to clear his mind of Esteban’s troubling behavior.

Chelsea manage to dispatch their opponents handily enough, securing a place in the round of 16.

Juan’s phone calls to his friend, however, remain unreturned.

+

When he finally does get in touch with Esteban—in an attempt to firm up their holiday plans—their conversation is swiftly derailed. Esteban’s already made alternate arrangements for his break. 

“You’re what?”

“My agent thinks it’s a good idea.”

“Let me get this straight. Instead of coming to visit me like we’ve been talking about since August, you’re going to spend your Christmas break in Miami? With the Real Madrid press officer? Because your agent says it’s a good idea? That doesn’t even make sense! What the fuck, Pirata?”

Esteban’s quiet on the other end of the line, waiting for Juan’s outburst to run its course.

Juan takes a deep breath, readies himself. It's time, he knows.

“I wish you’d just tell me what’s bothering you. Everyone and their brother is pulling me aside to tell me that you’ve been acting weird. You won’t take my calls. You won’t tell me what’s going on with you.” 

When Esteban responds, his voice is steady but seething with anger. “Look, I don’t need a therapist—or a babysitter, for that matter. So just leave it alone, Juan. I’ll do what I like, whether or not you approve.”

Juan nearly chokes in disbelief. “That’s your answer? I’m asking you what’s wrong and you’re lashing out like a teenager?”

“I said leave it alone, Juan.”

“Fine. Have fun in Miami,” Juan retorts petulantly before hanging up. 

He can’t contain the viciousness with which he slams the phone down on the marble kitchen countertop. Juan groans when he feels it break in two underneath his palm. He curses his taste in shoddily produced mobiles and friends that inspire violent reactions. 

+

The team hosts Manchester City next.

After the match, Juan meets Silva for dinner. His former teammate takes one look at him, and shakes his head. “You look like shit, Juanma.”

“I’ve been fighting with Esteban,” he admits quietly.

A wave of concern washes over Silva’s face. “Don’t worry,” he says, patting Juan on the shoulder reassuringly. “He’s just having a terrible season. You’d probably feel awful too if you didn’t get any playing time.”

Juan can’t argue with that.

+

A draw away at Wigan, and whatever comfort Chelsea have taken from their win over City dissipates. And with a match against Tottenham in five days time, Juan knows the stakes are as high as they’ve been yet. Screw winning the league—Chelsea are struggling to hold onto their top four spot. It may be defeatist, but at heart Juan's a realist. 

Juan’s struggling, too. Even his new teammates seem to notice that he’s a bit off-kilter. Everyone gives him a wide berth. Fernando hovers, but at a distance, and seems to know that Juan will seek him out when he’s ready to talk.

Paula, however, isn’t as forgiving. Not that he blames her; he hasn’t been the best of company lately.

First, she tries gentle prodding: “Stop moping around like a heartsick teenager, Juan;” then, she moves on to impatient rebukes: “Call him already.” It ends with a strict and final caution: “The longer you let this go on, the worse it’s going to get.”

Paula reaches her limit when she finds him lounging on the couch in his pajamas at four in the afternoon the day after the draw to Wigan. She drops a electronic boarding pass into his lap. It’s an evening flight to Madrid, leaving in two hours with details for a return leg that will have him back in London by training tomorrow morning.

“Fix it. And don’t bother coming back until you do.”

“You’re not my mother.” Not his finest moment, Juan knows.

“ _Por favor, Juan Mata!_ ” Paula mutters in exasperation. “Just go. You’ll thank me later.”

Juan certainly hopes so.

+

Esteban is strangely unsurprised to see Juan when he arrives at his doorstep later that night.

“Paula called,” Esteban explains as he ushers Juan inside. 

They begin with coffee and stilted apologies, until Juan grits his teeth and gets down to the matter at hand.

“Are we going to talk about this now?”

“What’s to say? I’ve lost an entire season, put in maybe a half an hour on the field, if even. I’m drowning in an ocean of million dollar midfielders here, and I haven’t got a prayer of a transfer until next summer. There’s not much to say.”

“You should have said that, Esteban.”

“Maybe. But you should have asked.”

“I did ask.”

“In a café surrounded by people half an hour before you’re due at the airport doesn’t count, Juan.”

That’s when Juan realizes he’s lost a game he didn’t even know he was playing.

+

Paula’s waiting for him at home after practice the following evening.

“He’s right, you know.”

Juan faces wrinkles with a quizzical look.

She sighs. “Not everything’s about football, Juan.”

+

Two weeks later, Juan finds that he doesn’t mind so much when Chelsea and Fulham draw on Boxing Day. It certainly helps that Esteban, Paula and his parents are waiting for him in the player’s lounge when it’s all over.

He throws an arm around Esteban’s shoulder as the five of them head out to the parking lot, giddy with a happiness he's only familiar with feeling on the pitch.

“C’mon, there’s this show I want you to see before you head home tomorrow. The Only Way is Essex. It puts Jersey Shore to shame. I DVR’d all the episodes.”

Esteban shoots him a look of disbelief and groans.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Keep talking like that, Pirata, and I’ll throw in a trip to Buckingham Palace.”

Their strides slow until they’re both hunched over in laughter, Esteban clutching at Juan’s arm, a warm smile filling his face as tears stream down his cheeks. Juan knows what's coming, and a rush of warmth floods through him.

“You’re the worst, Juan Mata. The absolute worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Juan Mata does live with his sister Paula. Here's a [video](http://conlaroja.wordpress.com/2011/12/22/it-runs-in-the-family/#more-9085) of the two of them at the Tsonga-Nadal match. Both [Cristiano](http://www.zimbio.com/photos/Cristiano+Ronaldo/ATP+World+Tour+Finals+Day+Eight/r-N2duY8T96) and [Pepe](http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/TTH2ycYAu9A/Pepe+Reina+goalkeeper+Spain+Liverpool+wife) were in attendance as well. I'm not sure that they were all in attendance on the same day... but this is fic, right?   
> 2\. Juan Mata [sightseeing](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=308452259171297&set=a.308451079171415.95123.123613977655127&type=3&theater) [around](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=308453609171162&set=a.308451079171415.95123.123613977655127&type=3&theater) [London](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=308454095837780&set=a.308451079171415.95123.123613977655127&type=3&theater), courtesy of his Facebook account. I could swear these originally appeared on his Twitter feed, but they seem to have been moved to fb since.  
> 3\. The Castilla boys (plus Albiol) had a bit of [reunion](http://yfrog.com/h2pwokzj) during the September call-ups.   
> 4\. And strangely enough, Granero did go on [holiday](http://www.sportskeeda.com/2011/12/29/madrid-midfielder-gets-cozy-with-miami-model/) to Miami with Oscar Ribot (RM press officer) over holiday break.  
> 5\. [BFFs.](http://yfrog.com/o0kuhhj)


End file.
